Cutting Cloth
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: He waits for Matthew to elaborate. "Always, so hot. Scorching hot. Australia has nothing on Africa."


_a/n There's a lack of Lawson whump in this fandom, so I wrote this. Anyone who's been following my tumblr for a while probably knows about my thoughts on Lawson x War and like. Ive always wanted a fic about Lawson's nightmares. And Im a sucker for Charlie and Lawson in any context, so enjoy. Can be read as pre slash or friendship depending on your views of the ship. Warnings: Nightmares, police corruption, minor child abuse (one instance mentioned) PTSD, war._

It always seems to be cold in Ballarat. Charlie doesn't remember the last time he felt compelled to remove his shirt and sit in the shade. Perhaps in a picnic with friends, or even with family. But this morning, though the air was cold, the breeze was warm, and perhaps naively, he hoped that the day would be warm enough to rouse his veins from his perpetually half dead paleness. But he didn't exactly hold out any expectation for it.

He sighed, and rolled over to take in the other side of the unfamiliar room. Lawson's guest room was nearly empty, bar the bed, a desk, an ugly floor lamp possibly thrust in here because it was indeed very ugly, and did not match the minimalistic décor of the rest of the house, and a built in wardrobe. (He still isn't sure if it's minimalistic or if Lawson just doesn't give a shit.)

His suitcase sits mournfully by the door. It's brown, worn surface calls to him like another home. He's spent a long time living out of his suitcase, more or less. He misses the choice of home, where all his things, though probably dusty now, are sitting in his drawers, exactly where he left them. He misses his mother's mismatched cutlery. He misses the feeling of a warm sun, rather than just a white sun on his skin.

Despite Matthew's best attempts to make him feel welcome in his home, it's been mostly for moot. Charlie doesn't think he'll ever feel like anywhere other than Melbourne will feel like his home. He wonders, somewhat distantly how many people can say that Matthew Lawson cooked pancakes for them. (And then how many of those people would be able to say that they laughed at Matthew Lawson and wiped cream off his nose with a cloth napkin that has a large coffee stain in the middle.)

The one thing that always seems to affect the men in his life, at least, all the men Charlie has known well enough that he should sleep in close proximity to them, is nightmares. First, his father. Even as distant and as cold as he was upon his return from the war and irrespective of how he kept his only son at an arm's length, and seemed far, far more invested in drinking his whiskey then he did attending school assemblies, he felt sorry for the man, screaming out in his sleep. Lying in his little bed in their shared bedroom, he has memories of varying fogginess of his mother leaning over his father and telling him to stop, shut up, you are going to wake Charles in her oddly accented voice. His mother had little time for weakness and exposed layers. She came from an old country (though he doesn't know what one) and she came here as a child with her father.

She was strong like steel and no amount of children was going to soften her much. When he was little, he remembers talking with her in some language that was not English, and his father telling her to stop, don't teach him that. They'd argued so long and so loud, and over time, he'd forgotten whatever that other language was.

Of course, the father he'd had pre war was much softer then his mother. He remembers being probably around the same age and sitting in his father's lap, playing with the silver buttons on his uniform. He'd been so amazed by them. The father he'd had later hadn't stuck around long enough for Charlie to ever learn exactly what he should do, should he be around to tend to him during a nightmare. He'd been shot eight times in a drug raid gone wrong, but Charlie chooses not to dwell on such things

Similarly, his various step-fathers and other men in his mother's life (all of which had served in the war) suffered night terrors to varying degrees, but by then he had his own room, and he simply allowed his mother to deal with them. His brothers, on occasion, asked them why their daddy was screaming and Charlie would have to do the best he could to explain war to an eight year old. He still remembers the quiet horror of some and the quiet inability to comprehend of the younger. He wishes he had the inability to comprehend and chalk them up as simple bad dreams, rather than a reflection of suffering.

Of course, perhaps the most obviously, the man who suffered from the worst nightmares was Lucien Blake. Despite thee being almost a floor between them, the man screamed so loudly that Charlie could have sworn he was being murdered. (Probably not great if he was actually murdered as there was every chance it would simply be written off as another (as Mattie called them) fucking nightmare.) It's hard to hear your friends in pain. It's even harder when there's nothing you can do for them. Jean specifically told him not to do anything about it and he (at the time) had not wanted, particularly, to lose his place of residence. So he hadn't. He allowed her to deal with them the way she had been. He doesn't know, particularly, what she did, just that it was something.

And now, Matthew Lawson. Indeed, Matthew did not seem to suffer quite as badly as the Doctor, it was still bad enough to wake him from whatever precarious sleep he'd fall into. Matthew seemed to have the ability to wake and calm himself, but Charlie felt bad. The man opened his house to him ( a known 'Problem Child' if one was going to continue with the latest bout of insults he'd faced) and he could do nothing to aid him. He wants to smoke.

At least here, he consoled himself, you can smoke indoors. It seems like a small consolation prize, in comparison. He doesn't, though. As much as he would like to, and as much as the rooms in Lawson's house seem to be slightly yellowed with the smoke from the mans father, who, if the few stories Lawson has deigned to share with him are true, was a heavy, lifelong smoker. Charlie refrained from bringing up parents when he could, mostly because he didn't want those questions turned onto him. He had no such desire to divulge his own personal history, and it seemed like Matthew shared that view.

Charlie placed an arm over his face and sighed deeply into the crook of his elbow and succeeding in making a sort of farting noise that had much more echo in the early hours of the morning. Three more hours before it was appropriate for him to be up, he told himself, not moving his arm away from his face. Matthew was typically up at half six, but if he was up at six, then he could make them both breakfast, and dear Lord his hands would like something to do. He could fiddle with his blanket, he supposed, but he'd been doing that all week and he was fairly certain that the blanket would be ruined if he continued to fiddle with it.

Before he can continue his internal monologue, his train is interrupted by a loud shout that only has one possible location to have come from. Or person, that is to say. Matthew. The shout was brief, but Charlie was rattled by it. It's hard to hear someone you like, and possibly care about (and possibly like even more then that) screaming out, even if it is over a dream. After a few moments of consideration, he decided to bring Matthew a glass of water. It seemed like a polite way to test the waters of such a situation and determine the correct societal rules for such proceedings.

The kitchen is the same as the bedroom. Neat and minimalistic. He doesn't know if that's the police part of him or the military part of him that keeps the place so neat that he feels out of place just standing there, but it's certainly something. He filled a drinking glass half full with water (to prevent spillage) and watched the tap as it struggled to keep up with the demand.

He made his way upstairs, cup in hand, and knocked gently before coming in. Lawson is still in bed, though sort of glazed over and sweaty. He wordlessly offers the drink, which Matthew accepts. While he drank, Charlie sat on the side of the bed, and took in this room, which differed from his bedroom and the kitchen in the sense that it had a slightly more personal touch to it. There is a throw rug on the end of the bed (green) and a handful of pictures pressed into the gap between the wooden mirror frame and the glass pane. Matthew as a young police man with his parents, Matthew as a younger man holding a baby in his arms. (A niece maybe? He doesn't know Lawson to have any children) and a picture of his mother. Normal pictures. There's a half read book on his side table, with a red bookmark peeking out of the pages somewhere close to the middle. There's an open window on the left side of the room with white curtains that flutter gently in the breeze of the night.

Matthew seems to have finished drinking the water and sat up, wiping his face with his hands. After a moment of half panic Charlie realized that the glass was safely on the bedside table. He doesn't speak. Charlie walked around to where Lawson's blazer was hanging on a coat hanger on the door to his wardrobe and reached into the front pocket, producing a packet of uncorked cigarettes and a lighter. He wandered up to the window, and took a seat on the sill, and put one between his lips.

As he lit the lighter and took his first drag, Matthew sighed and lay back down on the bed. Charlie supposes he really is shit at this whole talking thing.  
"Did I wake you?"  
"No."  
"Really?" He sounds slightly surprised. Charlie shrugged, and took another drag, letting it sit in his lungs. He let it out.  
"Chronic lack of sleep." He replied. Lawson doesn't respond. Charlie doesn't have any other things to say. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, after a long pause. He isn't sure of the right things to say, or even if he wants to hear about Matthew's war service. He was pretty sure that the man had seen things that people weren't meant to see. Most of them had. Things Charlie hopes that he will never have to see. There is a pause that seems to last a millennia. Charlie ashes his cigarette onto the poorly maintained garden under the first-floor window.

"It was hot." Charlie turned to look at him, lying in bed, starring up at the roof of his bedroom. He doesn't know how to reply. He isn't sure if now is the time to mention that he'd looked up the meaning of Lawson's ribbons bars in books at the library, it's probably not. He waits for Matthew to elaborate. "Always, so hot. Scorching hot. Australia has nothing on Africa." Charlie was certain that was true. "Every single dream I've had since coming back it's been hot. Disgustingly hot. And humid. I can't even breathe, it's so humid." Charlie remained silent, his burning cigarette his only addition to the conversation.

"All I can remember when I wake up, is that it was hot, and I was scared. Fucking God, Charlie. I was so afraid. I don't even think there is a word that describes that kind of fear." Perhaps cruelly, Charlie supposes that explanation explains the sweat. He can understand the fear, but supposes he will never know the scorching plains of Africa and that is just fine by him.

"I'm sorry." He said, finally, not knowing what else to say. If there even was something that could be said. A soft breeze made it's way into the room, picking up his unbuttoned nightshirt and it danced like the curtains. It seems like a poor response to someone sharing something so deeply personal with him, but he can't think of anything else worth saying.

He took another drag, and let out a soft sigh. The smoke danced in the air in front of him. It tastes of stains and sullen-ness. Matthew seemingly doesn't know how to respond to him, either. Charlie looked over at him.

"You can go, if you want. I'll be alright." Charlie sighed softly, mostly to himself, because even someone as untrained in the art of conversation as him could pick up the subtle please don't go in his voice. He shrugged and ashed out the window.  
"I can not sleep here or I can not sleep there. It's all much of a muchness to me." He said, in an attempt to soothe Lawson's sorely wounded pride.  
"Hm." Matthew replied, before they settled into a soft silence, only broken by the faint noise of an ambulance screaming somewhere across town. It makes him shiver deep in his bones.

"Where do you come from?" Matthew asked, after a moment. Charlie glanced at him, breaking his eyes from his staring contest with the moon. An interesting question.  
"I come from Melbourne, originally."  
"I mean where do _you_ come from." Matthew said, with heavy emphasis on the you, as if that made it somehow clearer. Charlie looked thoughtful, thinking about a good way to phrase it.  
"I come from a Church dance in 1932. I come from 'It's fine, Astrid, you can't get pregnant on your first time.' I come from pins on a map of Africa, and news broadcasts and stories of the old country. I come from five new fathers in as many years. I come from Richard Davis who took eight bullets to the chest and I come from Astrid Davis, who wishes she'd never had a son at eighteen. That's where I come from." A pause. "You?"

"I come from a police family. I come from Splashy. I come from signing up from war no one really explained. I come from the hot plains of Africa. I come from ten years under a man who was determined to break whatever was left of me. I come from a father accused of police corruption when I was thirty. I come from giving evidence against the man who created me." Lawson told him. Charlie listened intently, then considered lighting another cigarette. He didn't. He turned to face Lawson properly, he was lying back on the bed, dressed in white and blue button down pajamas with his hands behind his head, before putting out his cigarette on the windowsill, amongst the other similar burn marks. "If we're talking about fathers."  
"I thought you got this house from him."  
"I did. He never bothered to take me out of the will." Charlie sighed softly. "So I live in the house my father brought with his ill gotten gains, most of my family, bar one sister and one niece can't stand me, I can't sleep at night and everything I own smells like smoke. Charlie came over to the bed after a moment, standing in the light, casting a shadow over him. After a moment he lay down so his head was resting on Matthew's chest.

"If it helps any, I think you smell more like cheap aftershave, soap and whatever it is you wash your clothes with then smoke." Pause. Matthew looked down at him, and doesn't push him away. Charlie pretends he doesn't see the single sparkling tear make it's way down his cheek.  
"Thanks, Charlie." He said, after a moment. The curtains dance in the soft warm breeze of the night. Matthew doesn't tell him to leave. So he doesn't.

They lay together for a long time, and Charlie found himself dancing along the edge of sleep. He'd like to sleep, but he supposed it would give Matthew pins and needles in his arm so he tried to hold back, for his sake. Matthew doesn't even seem like he's considering falling asleep, though he must be tired.

"Do you think sons are destined to be like their fathers?" Fuck. Charlie is roused from his almost sleep by the question. He gave a noncommittal little murmur in reply. "Are you like your father, do you think?"  
"I don't know anything about him." He admitted. "He died when I was about twelve and we never spent much time together anyway. In a way, you probably know him as well as I do."  
"What do you remember him as?"  
"Cold. I remember he didn't play games with me like he did when I was little. He never came to any of my." A pause, while he yawned, "Football games."  
"I think that's where all this came from, all these corruption allegations. They think we're cut from the same cloth." Charlie sighed deeply, and considered going under the covers. He was tired as hell.  
"So what?" He asked, after a moment. "The same cloth someone used to make a skirt another person used for a pillow case."  
"That's…Awfully profound of you, Charlie." Lawson said, after a brief pause of consideration. He shrugged, and sighed peacefully. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Matthew -He did- but rather, that he wanted to sleep as well. He hasn't had a good nights sleep in months.  
"I don't think it matters, where you come from. You make your own choices."  
"What if I've made the wrong choice?" Charlie rolled off Lawson's chest and sat up.  
"Do you think you've made the wrong choice?"  
"No. At least. I've always tried to do the right things, even if they seemed like the wrong thing at the time. Or made me unpopular."  
"You have a strong moral compass. That's more than most people can say." Charlie said, folding his legs. More than he could say most of the time, but he suspects Matthew already knows that so he doesn't bother mentioning it.

Matthew sighed, and put his hands on his face.  
"Do you want to hear a story about my father?" Matthew lifted one eyebrow and looked at him. "About a month before he died, he took me to the train station, and we were pretty poor, still are, actually, but that's not important. We went on the train, which was new and exciting. And at the St Kilda station, which was on the opposite side of town to where we lived, he left me there. To find my own way home. And I did. At seven thirty at night. When I got home, he told me that he was teaching me the best lesson I'd ever learn, since he was convinced I was never going to have the opportunity to sign up for a war. Which I never did, even when the opportunity presented itself. He told me that he was teaching me that you can't trust anyone, not even the ones you love. My mother was so mad with him about that She'd worried for hours about me. She took me to her sister's place and told me she was going to get a divorce. She didn't have the chance though. Someone had to commit adultery or something. He was smart, my Dad. I don't think he loved her. I think he just wanted her so no one else could have her. He loved me though, or at least, I hope he did, somewhere deep inside. War just ruined him, I think." He looked at Matthew. "And you know? Ever since then, over and over, people proved him right. And then I came here. And you all proved him wrong. War ruined him, my dad. Didn't ruin you, though. Nope. You're still here, still making it, still good." He smiled, though it was an odd tight lipped thing. "So who cares what cloth you come from. I sure don't." Matthew didn't respond for several moments, deep in thought.

Then, he pulled back the blankets next to him, allowing Charlie to return to his previous position. He did so, and shut his eyes, and it took him only a few moments to fall asleep.

When he woke up (closer to seven then he'd have liked) Matthew is still asleep. Charlie smiled, and decided he was in no rush to get up afterall.


End file.
